


Goodbye to a World

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death in alternate timeline, Die Hard References, M/M, Time Travel, that is reversed because time travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too many of them had died… and those who were left were more broken because of it. So when Peter hesitantly admitted to knowing about a spell that would send someone back in time Stiles knew he had to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye to a World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).



Stiles knew that if his plan didn’t work Peter was going to blame himself. Maybe he’d bluster to Lydia about how he _told_ Stiles it was a suicidal and desperate attempt—but he’d be blaming himself with every bitter jibe he threw at Stiles’s memory. Stiles slipped away from the rundown barn, slipping out from under Peter’s arm. The fact that the werewolf didn’t even stir proved how exhausted he was—how they all were. Stiles couldn’t look at Peter for too long… or else he’d stay and keep running with what little they had left of the Pack—and Stiles needed to fix it. 

He took off his shoes, his socks silent against the grass as he made his way to a faraway clearing. His toes were frozen by the time he made it, his lips blue as Lydia glanced up from her preparations.

“It’s about time. We don’t exactly have many opportunities to do this.” Before Stiles could reply with the usual, _I know, I know_ , Lydia threw a large canvas backpack at him. Stiles opened it to see a few ratty shirts, a pair of pants, and a fire extinguisher. He slipped his wallet inside, not really caring about the ripped ten-dollar bill, but more so for the old pictures inside. “You know, for a forbidden spell, it wasn’t very hard to set up.”

Stiles laughed, rough and hysteric like cracked ice. He slipped his arms through the backpack straps and took a deep breath as Lydia bit her lip, glancing up at the night sky as if she could see the aligned planets they had waited so long for. 

Their breath fogged out in front of them, their eyes shining under the full moon.

“Remember—if this doesn’t work, let him know it wasn’t his fault. I’m doing this for everyone, Scott, Derek, Isaac, Allison my—my Dad. Because if I can go back and make things normal… I’m going to take that chance.” 

Too many of them had died… and those who were left were more broken because of it. So when Peter hesitantly admitted to knowing about a spell that would send someone back in time… Stiles knew he had to do it. He was new to magic, his “Spark” had shown up a few months ago… and he was the only one who could do it. 

Lydia hugged him tightly and if she cried, Stiles didn’t say anything. She had to stay outside of the circle as Stiles drew the intricate symbols. She didn’t remind him that there had never been a recorded success. Stiles exhaled slowly, and as soon as he lifted the stick from the dirt he could _feel_ it. He gasped, it was such a strong pull of his magic—magic he wasn’t even aware of—seeping into the dirt. 

Lydia made a strangled sound and Stiles didn’t want to know what he looked like, wide-eyed as hot blood dribbled out of his nose. He had a moment to feel fear—that he’d become another name in a long list of failures—

And that was when the sky opened up, like a flower, and suddenly Stiles _could_ see the stars and the planets, the Cosmos, was staring back—its gaze ancient, cold, and crushing. Stiles couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t look away from the universe impossibly laid out before him. He heard Lydia, she sounded years away—and somewhere, sometime, Peter bellowed Stiles’s name—but it already seemed so long ago as the last of Stiles’s magic left his body.

As the night sky swallowed him he felt movement under him, behind him—a thousand eyes, mouths, and hands reaching for him, towards his arrogance—

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, closing off the overload of the impossible. 

“Please.” Whatever was behind him rumbled like an approaching avalanche. Stiles thought his eardrums would rupture from such a deep sound. “ _Please_ —”

There was a rush of air and Stiles stumbled forward and hissed, his eyes flying open when he fell headfirst against a car door. His socked toes curled against pebbles and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was pressed against his father’s Sheriff cruiser. His throat was tight and he peered over the hood to see the station doors open, his father mid-sip of the sludge they called coffee. 

Everything was frozen, like actors waiting for the curtains to open. His heart thundered in his chest because everyone looked so young—but it was _Dad_ , there was no mistaking it. Lydia and him had gone over the perfect scenario—that he’d arrive with plenty of time to find Derek, stop Kate, and gracefully prepare. But when he glanced down at his watch he realized he was given no time, he couldn’t be subtle; he had to act fast if he wanted to stop everything.

The deep rumble returned, making Stiles’s legs shake. He felt like he was being mocked, he could practically hear _whatever it was_ laughing at him, assuming he’d fail. 

“Oh yeah?” Stiles unzipped his backpack, pulling out the fire extinguisher. “Fucking watch me, Rumbles.” 

Stiles stood and rammed the extinguisher as hard as he could into the cruiser’s driver’s window. Time began as Stiles brought down the extinguisher for a third and final time—and he ripped the door open and yanked at the console, exposing the wires as his Dad dropped his coffee.

“Hey, what the _hell_ —?”

Stiles refused to look at him as the cruiser purred to life. He could see his Dad, out of the corner of Stiles’s eyes, sprinting for the car, and Stiles slammed on the gas. He flipped on the lights and sirens, burning past the Pharmacy, his old high school, and… and Scott’s house. 

He swallowed, aware of the police cars wailing behind him, and he hoped his voice was steady as he grabbed at the walkie. 

::::

Talia could still taste the yellow wolfsbane that had laced the wine—and she roared, the flames already so hot—so hot and oh God, they were all going to die here. Peter clawed at the barred windows but to no avail while Cora stared at the mountain ash—the flames licking up the walls and ceiling. Naomi kept Cora close, shielding her with her body—

“Oh God, oh God.” A… _boy_ stumbled down the stairs, wide-eyed with dried blood crusted around his nose. “Jesus—all right, I got you guys.” He moved to the mountain ash, kicking it with his feet and Peter lunged at him; eyes bright blue—and the boy threw up his hands. “I come in peace, I swear, I just, you need to get out of here, let’s _go_!”

Peter growled, helping a bewildered Naomi to her feet, turning to Talia—but she was already moving to Cora—sweet little Cora who was wheezing—and the boy’s voice cracked as shouted, some debris falling from the ceiling. 

“ _Move_!”

She did. It hurt; her skin felt clammy and tight thanks to the wolfsbane in her system. The boy herded them to the stairs, pushing on their backs and following them up as more and more of the ceiling turned to cinders. The boy squeezed Talia’s wrist. 

“You need to ease up on the wolfiness—the police are outside, here to help—but—”

Talia turned, her face changing back into something more human. 

“Peter.” He snarled, teeth glistening against the fire. Talia and the boy didn’t flinch. “ _Peter_.”

True to his Alpha’s desire, Peter shifted back, the five of them cautiously making their way into the main corridor—as the Sheriff, John Stilinski, was there, looking understandingly horrified. He reached to Cora, and Talia gladly handed her over. She was sure that in her present condition the Sheriff was stronger than her. His eyes flickered to the boy, but he nodded toward the door. 

“Come on, paramedics are on their way—”

Pack went first, Talia last, and she turned, to look at the boy—when the ceiling collapsed on top of him and the Sheriff made a broken noise in his throat, but the flames were too close. They ran, ran into the sweet chilled night air, the Sheriff clutching Cora tightly, and Peter falling to his knees once they were a safe distance away. Talia immediately turned back towards the house, ready to go back into the fire to the return the favor—because though he had been a stranger, he’d been there to save them. Peter’s stopped her with a firm grip.

“Stop. The Pack needs you more.” 

Talia turned, red bleeding through her normally brown eyes. She hated how Peter was right, deep down she knew it, but it hurt that some boy’s life had been lost, after he gave them his devoted concern. The fire was blinding, and the Sheriff turned away, his eyes shuttered.

“Jesus…”

Talia swallowed and then heard the sound of breaking glass. Everyone turned to see the dining room window shatter, a lithe body falling out of it. Talia was on the move before anyone could stop her, hauling the boy back up, and she saw his hands and feet were bleeding from the glass. She threw his arm around her shoulders, letting him half-hobble half-hop to a safe distance.

“You knew.” 

It wasn’t a question. The boy coughed, his face dirtied with ash. 

“Yeah. Not an accomplice. I’ll tell you everything, not here. Don’t let me stay with the police.” 

His chest heaved, and he coughed, a dry wheeze. She felt his heartbeat slow, and she was able to take in the four police cars, lights still flashing, and parked in their driveway. She gently eased the boy next to Naomi, touching Naomi’s blonde hair briefly before returning to the Sheriff. He kept glancing between the boy, the house, his officers, and the boy again. Cora slid from his arms, running into her Uncle Peter’s outstretched arms. Talia gently took the Sheriff by the arm.

“Sheriff, may I speak with you a moment?” She winced, her vocal chords and lungs still healing which made her voice a harsh rasp. He nodded, and let her steer him back towards his cruiser. She was surprised to see that the driver’s window had been shattered, caved in from the outside. “You seem troubled.” 

“And you seem fairly calm for someone who almost burned alive.” The Sheriff coughed and he turned to look at the house. “I… It’s just unbelievable.”

Talia could hear that he wasn’t talking about the fire. 

“What was?”

His gaze moved to the boy, who was delicately picking glass out of his feet. He said something to Naomi that had her laughing, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hold it in.

“That kid. He broke into my car and led us here. He was on the walkie the whole way, telling us about an arson conspiracy, he had the names of the two goons we found out back—and we’re tracking down Kate Argent as we speak.” At the mention of the name Argent, Talia almost lost control, wanting to snarl and snap until all she knew was vengeance. She caught Peter’s eye and he mouthed, _later_. The Sheriff blew out a long breath, suddenly looking a lot older than he actually was. “He led us right to you, and still we were almost too late.”

“Almost, but you weren’t.”

Sheriff Stilinski was a good man under his weathered-cop facade. Even with all the loss in his life, he protected Beacon Hills and still loved his son fully. Talia wanted to smooth away the worry lines from his forehead. The paramedics arrived, sirens whining, and the Sheriff made a move toward the boy.

“I should—”

“Could you give me a minute with him?” The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. Talia wasn’t sure if she remembered how to play a frightened single mother, but she gave it her best shot. “Please, I just want to say thank you, I was so worried for him.” 

“You get _one_ minute.”

His voice was like stone and Talia knew that _he_ knew she was up to something, and that she had sixty seconds to try and do it. Humans rarely were able to make Talia feel exposed but she was already making her way to the boy. He looked up, his fingers and feet sticky with his own blood. His heartbeat was beginning to slow back to a normal pace and he smiled, his teeth white beneath the crimson. He smelled proud underneath the singed hair and ash. The Sheriff began his approach and Talia knelt before the boy, speaking softly. 

“What’s your name?”

He swallowed and Talia knew the rest of the Pack that was present leaned forward. 

“Stiles.” 

The Sheriff was too close for anything more to be said. Peter couldn’t decide who he wanted to stare holes into more, Talia or Stiles. Cora clutched Naomi and Stiles’s heartbeat was steady, his eyes studying the cars, the officers, like he was ready to run if he had to. Talia glanced at the shards of glass in his feet before turning, meeting the Sheriff head on. 

::::

Talia’s story went like this: 

Stiles was an old and dear family friend from out of town who, while very jetlagged and still aching from the cramped economy seats, just so happened to be at the right place at the right time. 

Peter thought it was the flimsiest cover, and he knew the Sheriff didn’t believe it for a second—they all knew that—but his face softened when Derek and Laura were reunited with them at the station. Peter recognized the scent of loss and empathy—and how close they’d come to being broken and burned away. Stiles sat off to the side, his hands and feet covered in gauze—and the Sheriff sighed. It was a gamble, and it paid off as they all walked out of the station and down the dark road towards a hotel. 

Talia led them, holding Cora’s hand, Stiles, Laura, and Derek followed, Stiles’s arm around Derek’s shoulder as he limped along. His back was straight, his fingers twitching at his sides. 

Soft blonde locks brushed Peter’s shoulders as Naomi bumped his hand with her fingers. Peter watched her pale green eyes focus on their human savior, brushing blonde hair out of her face. 

She was the oldest daughter of the Boudreau Pack on the east coast, and for an arranged marriage, Peter couldn’t do much better. 

“Would you like to go back to your Pack?” 

He wouldn’t blame her and he was sure that as soon as the news got out about what happened at the Hales, her Pack would want her home for a little while. Instead, she flashed him a grin.

“Absolutely not. I’m not missing his,” she nodded toward Stiles, “explanation, not for anything.” 

They checked in, worn and weary, and Peter had to admit, the kid had everyone’s attention as soon as the door swung shut behind them. Stiles stayed by the door, playing with the sleeves of his stained red hoodie as the Pack gathered in front of him. Peter stayed in the back with Naomi, his posture that of disinterest, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. 

Stiles swallowed, his heartbeat kicking up a notch as he clutched his backpack. 

“Okay. What I’m about to say isn’t the most… plausible.” Stiles’s eyes were drawn to Peter, Cora, and Derek the most. He licked his lips; his eyes meeting Peter’s before he quickly glanced away. “I’m from the future. 2015, actually, and I came back in time to save you guys from the fire.” Stiles shrugged, his smile tight. Some blood was still crusted around his nostrils. “For such a forbidden spell, it wasn’t that hard to do.”

“That’s impossible.” All heads whipped around to Peter. He spoke, his voice betraying him. “No one has ever survived that spell.”

Peter knew. He had the tomes to prove it, the centuries of accounts of madness, of self-mutilation to the point of suicide—and in some cases spontaneous dismemberment. Stiles’s heartbeat remained steady as he stared at Peter, a crooked smile stretching across his face.

“Looks like I’m the lucky first.” 

His heart didn’t skip a beat and Peter’s mouth was dry because this _kid_ had done what countless others had given their lives for in the name of greed, revenge, or justice—and this skinny boy with chapped lips shrugged, uncomfortable with the Pack’s awed focus. Talia was quiet, and Peter felt a momentary surge of rage for her softness, so he asked the obvious. 

“Why come back for us?” Naomi bristled next to him, but Peter didn’t care. He didn’t have a problem with taking charge. “We’re a relatively small back, and I don’t mean to offend, what do you get out of us living?” 

Laura flinched and Derek looked down at his hands. Talia clenched her fists and Stiles—

Stiles reeked of rage and such a deep grief that Naomi covered her nose. 

“Because some people actually give a shit about you, Peter. And all the shit my friends… my family went through stemmed from this fire—and for God’s sake, I just wanted them and your family to have a fucking _chance_ —” His voice broke and instantly his hands were at his eyes even though it did nothing to hide the smell of salt. Peter opened his mouth to push for more, but Talia glared at him, eyes red, and Peter’s jaw slammed shut. They watched Stiles take a few deep breaths before taking his fingers away from his red-rimmed eyes. He glanced at Cora, a shaky smile on his lips. “Sorry for swearing.” 

Cora smiled, and Peter felt some tension go out of his shoulders at the brightness that remained in her eyes.

“It’s alright. I’ve heard worse from Laura—”

“Hey!” Laura pinched Cora’s side, blushing. She straightened, her eyes on Stiles. “So, did you know any of us?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, uh—Derek, Cora and—and Peter.”

Laura swallowed as the rest of them let it sink in. Peter had so many questions pressing against his lips. Laura stood and extended her hand. 

“I’m Laura. Derek and Cora’s older sister.”

Stiles smiled, and it took years off his eyes as Naomi talked up to him next.

“Naomi, Peter’s wife.”

“ _Wife_?” Stiles gaped, his eyes flickering form Peter to Naomi, his throat clicking. “I didn’t know that. Neat.” 

Naomi stepped away, making room for Talia. Stiles’s lips parted when she shook her hand, and it made Peter’s teeth ache. Eventually Talia pushed the two beds together and the Pack piled on, needing to be close to reassure themselves that they were all still alive. Stiles sat with his back against the door, his arms and legs bracketing his backpack. 

Though his eyes were closed, Stiles was still awake, even as the rest of the Pack drifted off to sleep. Peter rested his chin on Naomi’s shoulder, and focused on Stiles’s too-careful-to-be-real deep breathing and elevated heartbeat.

Six hours later, Naomi gently shook Peter awake, looking unfairly put together despite her crinkled clothes.

“Hurry up, darling, or you’ll miss breakfast.”

Peter sat up quickly, hating how sluggish he felt. Naomi tied up her hair in a messy bun, pouting at her reflection before turning away. Peter rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to get on his feet. 

“Where is everyone?”

“At the diner.”

The walk over was brisk and sure enough, everyone was crammed into a booth in the far corner. Stiles was sandwiched between Cora and Derek, a mountain of curly fries in front of him. The points and angles of his face were too sharp and he ate quickly and efficiently, eyelashes fluttering at the greasy taste. Talia stood, talking Naomi by the arm to accompany her outside. 

Laura watched stiles with a mixture of fascination and pity while Derek shared his French toast with Cora. Peter tapped Laura’s shoulder, nodding towards the window where her mother spoke on her cell phone. Laura was out of her seat in a moment, and Peter slid in her place. 

Stiles paused, wallowing awkwardly before he dabbed his fingers on the crummy paper napkin. Cora separated them, but luckily she was short enough to make it easy for Peter to make eye contact with Stiles. The young man smiled weakly, the circles under his eyes deep and dark.

“Sorry about yelling yesterday, I was a little, uh, high strung.”

His leg bounced and he was twisting his straw wrapped mercilessly. Peter shrugged. 

“It’s fine.” And oddly enough, it was. Stiles sucked down his water in less than a minute, then began to chew on the ice cubes. “Talia is taking care of the insurance, and after she settles that she will ask you if you’d like to stay with us.”

Stiles blinked, throat bobbing. 

“She is?” 

“Without a doubt.” 

Even without superior hearing Peter was certain that Talia would do everything in her power to attempt to repay Stiles for their lives. Peter understood, but not to the same degree. For most debts he was fine with writing a check and sending the do-gooder on their way. Peter didn’t like how he thought Stiles deserved more. Stiles returned his eyes to the window, to Talia and Naomi. His heartbeat kicked up and Peter could taste the buzz of fear on him with the strangest hints of hope and despair. It permeated the air for a moment before Stiles blew it away with a rough exhale. 

“What do you want me to do?”

Derek and Cora both turned to look at Peter with their young, big eyes. Peter had to bite down the instinctual pithy response, “ _for annoying time-travelers to stop being obviously obtuse_.” Stiles’s lips twitched like he could hear it anyway, the gleam in his eyes daring Peter to say it. 

Peter stole the last curly fry off the plate, forcing his shoulders to relax. 

“I think,” the bell above the door jingled, Naomi, Laura, and Talia returning. “I think staying in one place to get your bearings would be beneficial.” 

Peter had so many questions and he couldn’t honestly say that he wouldn’t chase Stiles down to get answers. Keeping him close was safer, easier. And, judging by the way Cora bounced and Derek relaxed, the Pack wouldn’t mind him staying. Stiles chewed on his straw when Talia smiled at him.

“Stiles, would you like to take a walk with me?” 

“Yeah, as long as you don’t mind my hobble.” 

He never looked back to Peter as they meandered out of the door. Naomi carded her fingers through Peter’s hair. Laura wrung her hands and looked at Peter sharply. 

“Do you think he’ll stay with us?”

“Honestly?” Peter let out a long breath that he hated to admit that he was holding. “I have no idea.” 

::::

Sleeping in a bed took some getting used to. The first night Stiles didn’t trust the soft mattress and unfairly decadent feather-stuffed pillows; he tossed and turned all night until his eyes fell shut at dawn—and he woke two days later because Cora shook him and sighed, “Oh good, you’re alive,” when he opened his eyes. After that, sleeping was easy, like falling backwards into clouds. 

Three weeks into living with the Hales and Stiles still woke up with a jolt, reaching for arms that weren’t around him, turning towards the chest that _wasn’t_ at his back. Every morning was the same, he’d start off warm, content, and when he’d reach for the warmth that was never there, he’d jerk awake thinking _where’s Peter, oh God, where’s Peter—_

Morning dew still clung to the grass, the horizon a thin blue line as the sun struggled to rise. 

Pearly white scars on his hands and feet were the only things left of that night, stretched across his hands like spider webs. In the safety of the daybreak, Stiles pulled up the right sleeve of his hoodie, exposing Peter’s bite mark.

_Mate._

It felt heavy on the tongue even if Stiles was fully aware Peter did it to give Stiles a better sense of self-preservation. Stiles had woken up in the hospital, and the first thing Peter said to him was, “ _How would you feel about becoming my Mate_?” He’d been a little peaky, running his fingers over Stiles’s wrist as Lydia cleared her throat, but Peter ignored her. Stiles remembered smiling and saying, “ _Sure, why not_?” 

People weren’t head-over-heels for death if they had someone to live for, so Peter stepped up to be that person. And it was a source of comfort for a while, Stiles running his fingers over the scar on his wrist, the permanent indentation of Peter’s fangs. 

They didn’t even kiss until months later, and that had Stiles thinking maybe Peter hadn’t offered it just to keep Stiles invested in living. 

A chilly breeze cut through him, yanking Stiles back to the present (well, past if he was being technical, _heh_ ) and he pushed his sleeve down. Just in time, as it so happened, because Derek jogged up to him, still in his pajamas. He slowed by Stiles’s side, and they walked in silence together for a few moments before Derek finally spoke, his voice nowhere near the grumpy baritone that had become so familiar to Stiles. 

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.” Derek swallowed, his throat clicking and his face so expressive that Stiles couldn’t help but stare. “I think… Cora and I saw you yesterday, at the playground. You were—are—a little kid. Your dad was—is—the Sheriff.” 

Oh. 

Stiles paused their morning stroll and Derek turned, his face looking so broken and guilty that Stiles had to put a stop to it because this time history would be different. This time they’d have a chance to be happy.

“Yeah. Sheriff’s son. Still gangly, still awkward, just a lot taller.” Stiles stretched, some bones in his neck popping. “You know what the best part about being back in time is?” Derek shook his head and Stiles grinned. “I’m going to know what’s cool before any of you.”

Stiles boggled Derek’s mind with the reveal that jeans were about to get “skinny” and that Nicki Minaj was a songstress. He did his best impression of her cackle before making Derek blush and laugh as Stiles proudly shouted, “My pussy put his ass to sleep, now they callin’ me Nyquil.” Stiles laughed so hard his lungs burned and his eyes stung. He bent over, hands on his knees as Derek giggled, high-pitched and free.

Derek’s shoulders were still shaking as they stumbled over the stone driveway. Derek reached to catch him, but then turned at the last second, looking to where the driveway turned and hid itself in the trees.

“What is it?” Stiles could see or hear anything out of the ordinary… until he felt Rumbles, making his body shudder like an earthquake was about to split the ground in half. Stiles was the only one shaking, nothing else quivered at all, and he knew it was a warning as he turned to an ashen Derek. “Derek, what is it?” 

“Hunters. In a car—I can smell wolfsbane—”

Stiles shoved Derek, hard enough to make him stumble. 

“ _Go_. Tell your Pack. I can take ‘em.” Rumbles eased up, but now Stiles could hear the car. He pushed Derek again. “I said go!” 

Derek ran, vanishing from Stiles’s line of sight as he turned to see a black SUV rolling steadily toward him. The windows were tinted and Stiles didn’t move an inch, even when it came to a reluctant halt in front of him. Stiles rested his scarred hands on the hot metal. The driver’s door opened and Victoria Argent stepped down. Stiles swallowed, determined not to tremble as she eyed him with cold calculation. 

“Please get out of my way.”

Stiles put on his best smile. 

“I’m comfortable where I am, thanks.” The passenger’s door opened and there was Chris, clean-shaven and younger. Stiles widened his stance a little. “But if all you want is a chat I’m a charming conversationalist. I’d be happy to swap some heartwarming stories and s’mores.” 

Golden sunlight streaked over the grass and warmed Stiles’s back. The car idled for a moment before Victora shifted her weight. 

“The police report mentioned a Good Samaritan.” Stiles kept his face impassive even as his heartbeat ramped up. He considered it a small blessing that, while intimidating and intuitive, the Argents were still human and stuck with average hearing. “According to the Sheriff, if that Good Samaritan hadn’t been there the Hales would have burned to death.”

“I guess they’re pretty lucky then.”

Stiles was closer to Victoria but if he had to go up against someone he’d pick Chris. Either way he’d be dead, but Chris would finish him quickly. Victoria smiled. 

“Relax. We’re here to apologize. No need to be so dramatic.” 

Stiles opened his mouth to say he was being appropriately stoic and not at all scared when Peter’s voice came from right behind him.

“I wouldn’t call it dramatic, just precautionary—really, Stiles?” 

Stiles threw himself against the car, then rolled to the side with the embarrassing squeak of metal on skin introducing his fall. Naomi was there to help him up with a smirk. Stiles felt his cheeks burning, brushing himself off as Chris started to have a mysterious coughing fit that Stiles just knew was laughter. Victoria waited for Chris to recover before she addressed Peter. 

“Kate had dropped off the map a few years ago… and I had no idea what she’d been meaning to do to your family. Since they announced the court date, we’ve come to testify.” 

“How very kind and selfless of you.” Peter’s smile was slow and sarcastic. Stiles swallowed, forcing himself to look away. “What could possibly be done to repay your generosity?”

“Nothing. A crime was committed by one of our own and she’ll be brought to justice for it. We’ll be staying in town for the time being.” Victoria pushed herself off of the car and took long strides to Stiles, not flinching when the sudden movement made Peter bristle and Naomi expose her fangs. “If you need to get in contact with me, use this number.” 

She handed him a sleek business card and he slid it into his pocket.

“Thanks, I think.” Victoria kept staring at him and Stiles stuck out his chin slightly. “What?” 

“Be careful with wild animals, Samaritan. They’re cute and fuzzy until someone gets bitten.” 

This time the growl came from Peter. Victoria turned on her heel and soon her, Chris, and their environmentally unfriendly SUV were gone. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“And they accused _us_ of being dramatic. Rude.” Stiles turned to see the rest of the Hale Pack staring at him. Derek was ashen and before Stiles could reassure him everything was fine, he was being hugged. _Hugged_ by _Derek Hale_. Stiles took a moment before he squeezed Derek back. “It’s all right. It was all fine, I told you, I can take them.” 

::::

Victoria Argent felt a mixture of shame and disgust at her sister-in-law at the courthouse. Her blonde hair was matted and she leered at the young Hale boy from the stand, barring her teeth like an animal. She delivered her piece calmly without a hint of remorse for Kate. 

She felt Talia, the Alpha, staring at her, and Victoria placed her hand on Chris’s arm.

“Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Victoria slipped out of the courtroom, needing to breathe—

A girlish shriek made Victoria jerk her body into a battle ready stance when… she saw the Good Samaritan sliding down the marble floor on his knees, Allison on his shoulders with a wide grin on both their faces. The Samaritan saw Victoria and faltered, falling and skidding on his side while making sure to keep Allison off the ground. The end result was the Samaritan’s cheek mashed against the marbles as Allison bounced on top of him, chirping “Again, again!” 

With an overly dramatic groan, the Samaritan sat up, Allison’s tiny arms around his neck. Victoria helped him to his feet, brushing off the boy’s shoulders because she didn’t want Allison getting dirty _and_ it would bother the Hales if they could smell her on him. It was pithy, but Victoria needed a distraction. The Samaritan’s throat clicked, his eyes jittery. 

“So… how did it go in there?” 

“As well as you’d expect. Please, don’t stop playing on my account.”

The Samaritan raised his eyebrows, but it didn’t take much wheedling from Allison to convince Stiles to start racing her around the courthouse. When the trial was over, the Samaritan had Allison standing on his shoes so they did an offbeat, circular waltz down the halls.

As soon as the doors opened, the boy stopped, his once carefree expression gone. Victoria watched his eyes pick through the crowd until he could see the Hales. For such a brave young man he wasn’t very good at hiding his relief at seeing them. He picked Allison up effortlessly so she didn’t get lost in the flood of people. Victoria took Allison off his hands and quickly joined Chris out in the parking lot, giving the Hales and the Samaritan some privacy. She glanced over her shoulder briefly to see Talia place her hand on the boy’s shoulder exactly where Victoria’s had been. 

Being outside was a relief. 

Chris kissed her cheek, and Victoria felt a surge of overwhelming love for him—she was so lucky to have him—and he offered her a crooked smile. 

“What do you need?” 

Victoria blew out a long breath. She needed to decompress, she needed to move past the shame of an Argent becoming so vile and twisted, she needed to use their creed as a mantra to ground her. She turned to see the Hales emerge, Derek with red eyes and shaky hands with his mother’s arms around his shoulders and his sisters by his side. The uncle and his wife were more distant, but they never strayed too far from the rest of the Park. 

The Samaritan hung back. Chris followed Victoria’s eyes and made a low, questioning hum in his throat. The boy… while he looked relieved had an underlying fear for them. He was too skinny, if Victoria was being honest. 

“Good Samaritan.”

The boy rolled his eyes, his easy-going smile sliding firmly into place. 

“My name is Stiles, I told you that.” 

Victoria smiled, hoping it was enough to look dangerous. 

“Stiles, would you be so kind as to join my husband and I for dinner?” 

To his credit, Stiles didn’t bat an eye as he nodded. 

“Surely. Though I’d ask you don’t keep me too late, I’m an early bird.”

He hid his cunning with bravado and wit. He’d do well as a Hunter, it was a shame the Wolves found him first. Chris prepared a feast of French food that melted in the mouth. Even Stiles, when he walked in, couldn’t keep up his playfully aloof persona as his jaw dropped. Allison giggled and Chris smirked. 

“I was going to offer you a drink first, but how about we just get to the meal?”

Stiles was all jittery motion, starting and stopping between stories, all strung together with pretty little punch lines. He kept it up even after Allison went to bed and as he washed the dishes. Chris poured them all coffee. Victoria watched Stiles dump spoon after spoon of sugar into his cup. 

“So, thanks for dinner.” Stiles sniffed, rubbing the tip of his nose impishly. “Will you guys be leaving town soon?”

“Actually, we’ve been liking the look of the schools out here. Might be a good place to raise Allison.” 

Victoria leaned back to avoid the coffee that sprayed from Stiles’s mouth. Chris watched, leaning against the counter. Stiles put down the coffee and his mask dropped immediately, his eyes harder than titanium. 

“If you’re going to do that we need to lay down some ground rules.”

“We do?”

Victoria tried to lure him back with her playful tone but Stiles didn’t blink. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely. And if you have a problem with that either get out of town or change your mind.”

His fear was back but Victoria couldn’t tell exactly what or whom Stiles was afraid of. His fear didn’t cripple him like most; it didn’t isolate and restrain him. It made him tough; it made the circles under his eyes more pronounced as he spoke directly with an unwavering voice. 

“If you’re serious I’m not leaving until we figure this out. Because sure, Kate was a bad seed, but there will be others like her and I won’t let you become that. Because the Hales—they protect Beacon Hills because it’s their home. And it’ll be just a little problematic if you’re breathing down their neck every step of the way.”

“They’re _wolves_ —”

“Jesus, they’re _people_ , not rabid animals.” Stiles scratched at his neck, his eyes frantic. “Please _hear_ me, okay? The world isn’t back and white; if you start thinking that way you’ll just end up like Kate. This isn’t some zero-sum game and I—I want to help you, I do, but not if you don’t work with me on this.” 

Thin lines of blood sprung up on his neck, but Stiles didn’t notice, he kept scratching until Chris pulled his hand away, a towel in his hand. Stiles swallowed at the sight of blood on his fingers, not flinching when Chris wiped it away.

Victoria Argent was familiar with dangerous people and beasts of all variations. There were those that were merely satisfying a hunger, others were righteous, and some were so cold and precise about taking life it was thrilling and agonizing to be in their presence. Chris hummed under his breath as he wrapped Stiles’s neck in gauze. 

Stiles was dangerous. 

Everyone had a level of danger to them, and Stiles… he was human, but one that was afraid, and his fears weren’t about the Hales, but more about the Argents. It didn’t take a genius to hear the real desperation, the _please don’t force my hand, because there is no gong back once we’re on that road, please—please—_

Victoria sipped her coffee.

“All right. Sell me a compromise.” 

Stiles beamed before launching into an adamant debate, arms flailing as they haggled until both of their voices were hoarse, and when Stiles checked the time it was two in the morning. Stiles had written up a contract that all parties would sign, and then he pressed a bloody thumbprint onto the paper. “For theatrics,” he said with a wink. 

It wasn’t that Victoria was afraid of Stiles, but she was afraid of whatever made his eyes get the desperate gleam that promised dismal chaos. It was gone when he locked eyes with her, his voice a weak croak as he said, “We protect those who can’t protect themselves.” 

Victoria drove Stiles back to the Hales, the digital clock on the dash glowing 2:45 at them mockingly. Stiles clutched his copy of the agreement and as soon as they came to a stop in the driveway he was out of the car. The Hales were waiting, all of them gathered on the porch. Stiles waved his arms excitedly. 

The Alpha wrapped her arms around him, her hands pressing against the bandages before ushering them inside. 

Victoria might never know where Stiles came from, but one thing was for certain: the Hales were much luckier to have him than he was to have them. 

::::

Naomi met Peter at a lake house in upstate New York. She thought it was just dreadful, her Pack dressed in awful neutral colors and laughing too loudly at their own jokes. The walls were so pressed with people that Naomi couldn’t find her future husband. 

That night Naomi snuck away to the docks, letting the fish nip at her toes. She hadn’t been sitting for more than five minutes when confident footsteps creaked against the wood. She turned to see a tall fellow with an unopened champagne bottle and a crooked smile. Instantly she knew it was Peter Hale, just as he knew she was Naomi Boudreau. He sat next to her and promised that he’d never ask her to wear beige.

Her lungs still burned from the smoke as she looked at the young man who saved them, seemingly out of nowhere with no explanations. He hissed, gingerly picking glass out of his feet. When he saw her staring he waggled his eyebrows and wheezed out, “Yipee ki-ay, motherfucker.” 

Naomi laughed until her throat stung. 

“You know, this is totally cheating.” Stiles stretched, his back popping as he surveyed the mall map. “I mean, I would totally do it too—just letting know it’s cheating, asking the guy from the future what would be the best Christmas presents for the in-laws.” 

Naomi pinched his side, making him squawk about being a delicate human. He was human, completely human with not a speck of magic left in him, but he was anything but delicate. Naomi watched him, the same way the rest of the Hales watched him, as he seamlessly brought the Argents to a compromise and researched any invaders into their territory. 

Stiles carried all the bags and he flipped through movies for Cora when Naomi rested her chin on his shoulder.

“You haven’t said what you wanted.”

Stiles shrugged with his other shoulder. 

“I’m pretty good. Got a roof over my head and I’m still alive. Everything is looking up for Stiles.” 

They dodged frustrated mothers and wailing children, and they found themselves taking refuge in a Barnes and Noble. Naomi watched Stiles tug at his sleeves restlessly, worrying his bottom lip raw. He moved fast, not lingering in any aisle for more than a few moments before be pressed _Unmasking the Face_ into her hands.

“Here. Peter will like it.” He smiled, warm with a hint of steel underneath, like he tasted something bitter while someone told him a joke. “It’ll help him with the games he likes to play.”

Naomi was struck speechless, her jaw clicking shut as she sucked in a breath and took a step away from Stiles. She thought it was a secret; the way Peter would sometimes be so slick that she thought it was a trick of the eye even though deep down she knew it wasn’t true. 

She ran her fingers along the book’s spine.

Even though it was an arranged marriage, Naomi liked to think that she knew her husband more than most. She knew his curiosity was his biggest vice, his thirst for knowledge bigger than a lust for power. She wondered if Peter’s vices were more pronounced in the future, and if that was why Stiles acted differently around him compared to the rest of the Pack. 

He was tactile, happily sweeping Derek and Cora into hugs on a whim, high-fiving Laura despite how it stung his palms—and touching Naomi or Talia’s arms to get their attention. He had no problem sprawling out on the couch, wiggling his toes under Derek’s legs as he read a book with Cora. 

He never touched Peter.

Naomi wasn’t sure if anyone other than Peter and herself had noticed. How even at the slightest touch, a simple press on the wrist, would make Stiles flinch—though he’d pass it off as too much energy, always flashing a goofy grin at Peter as he increased the distance between them. When Naomi wrapped the book in gold paper it felt heavy in her hands, like Stiles’s stare would get when he thought no one was watching. 

Christmas Eve was the main holiday for the Hales, and Christmas Day was reserved for being as lazy as possible while wearing pajamas. Eve, however, was when the formal clothes came out. Peter wore a fitted vest with matching slacks. Naomi had on a navy blue dress with her favorite winter jacket. 

“I used to hate Christmas.” Peter spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through the comfortable silence. He lifted his bag of gifts from the bed and took Naomi’s before she could grab it. Their private cottage was a mile out, a healthy distance from the house. Their breath puffed in front of them as their footsteps crunched along the amber grass. “It would make me feel like my own Pack… my family… didn’t know me because gift after gift was another thing I’d never want or need.” 

“Did it ever get better for you? Do they know you now?”

Before he could answer, Laura threw open the door, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” blaring loudly behind her. She smiled like she hadn’t been expecting to, her mascara a little fuzzy around the edges. Stiles came sliding out into the foyer in socks and the ugliest sweater Naomi had ever seen. It _lit up_ and the colors clashed so badly it almost made her eyes cross. 

Cora and Derek came running after them, their formal wear already wrinkled, a few buttons and bows slipping free as they gave chase. Laura grabbed their bags of gifts and hauled them inside, letting some fang slip through.

“Stiles won’t tell us where he hid the control fro the CD player and he has six discs of what he calls the obnoxious classics and—”

It was a massacre of tinsel and Alvin and the Chipmunks. Naomi tried to ask if this was normal, but once she saw Peter’s stunned face she had her answer. 

Talia was by the tree, turning down the music as sounds of laughter echoed through the house. Talia took their coats, a soft smile on her face.

“He said it used to be a tradition in his house.” The Alpha shrugged. “He deserves the feeling of home.” 

Stiles came panting into the room, Cora on his back and Derek at his side as they fell onto the couch. Laura joined them, and then it was time for presents. Naomi knew it was selfish, going first, giving the book to Peter. He unwrapped it, a bemused smile on his face as the paper fell away—

Peter’s face seemed to shudder and shift, his throat clicked and his eyes shone as he looked at her. His gaze was luminous, his cheeks pink, lips parted, and it was the first time _anyone_ had looked at her like she was someone to be worshipped. Peter was halfway across the room, his blue eyes dark and his hand reaching for her, and Naomi couldn’t stop the words passing her lips.

“It wasn’t me—Stiles, he picked it out.” 

Peter came to a halt, his momentum making him sway as he turned to Stiles—Stiles whose face was red as he sat up from the puppy pile on the couch. He smelled betrayed and embarrassed, but his heartbeat didn’t lie. Naomi was glad she couldn’t see Peter’s face because Stiles was shaking. Peter’s voice was a low growl, his shoulders stiff. 

“Get up.” 

Stiles stood right away and he barely had a moment to breathe before Peter pulled him into a tight embrace. 

::::

Derek liked Stiles. He had a feeling it was impossible to _not_ like Stiles, and he even mentioned it to the human and Stiles laughed until he cried, barely able to wheeze out a, “Oh man, I wish I could have shown you to future-Derek, Derek.” Derek had blushed but Stiles wiped his eyes and suggested Mario Kart. He made everything seem effortless, his jokes, the stories he’d tell about television shows in the future, and there were nights when he’d stay up late in silence with Derek until they ended up passed out together in a tangled sprawl. 

But the thing was—as cool and at-ease Stiles could be… there was an underlying _wrongness_ in him that made Derek’s throat tighten. He knew his mom could see it but she was too afraid, too indebted to press any further. So Derek swallowed his pride and slid into Laura’s room first thing in the morning. Predictably she raised a judgmental brow, making Derek avert his eyes as she stood and crossed her arms. 

“It’s police to knock.” Her voice was already developing into something sharp, a perfect Alpha tone. Her eyes softened. “What’s wrong?” 

She could smell it on him, which was why Derek went to Laura before anyone else was awake, before the rest of the Pack could corner him at breakfast, full of suffocating warmth and concern. Stiles understood how important space could be, how sometimes silence was much more comforting than a barrage of “What’s wrong, Derek, honey, just tell us _what’s wrong_?” 

“It’s Stiles.” Laura’s expression tightened and she drew in a breath to parrot Talia’s, _He’s fine, just making his way, Derek, Stiles is just fine,_ but Derek wasn’t going to let her. “He’s not fine, Laura, he _isn’t_. You know that, you see it too, right?” Because even though Stiles achieved what he set out to do, something was eating at him day-by-day, underneath his bright grins and uproarious laughter something dark pulled at his eyes. Laura was backing up to the bed, and Derek grabbed her wrist and squeezed. “Laura.” 

Derek’s lungs were tight and he knew he smelled like terror and grief. He knew Stiles woke up with a gasp every morning, and that every morning he’d sneak down to the laundry room to wash the tear stains off his sheets. 

Months had passed since Christmas but the scene between Stiles and Peter was still fresh on the Pack’s mind. Stiles had been shuddering, like he was expecting Peter to disembowel him instead of hug him—and as soon as Peter touched Stiles—Stiles went still. He’d sighed, and when he relaxed into the hug it was the first time Stiles looked his age and not someone decades older. 

Laura pressed her forehead against Derek’s. 

“I know. I just… I don’t know if there’s anything we can do. Maybe he just needs to figure it out for himself.” Derek growled and Laura pinched him. “Well fine, Derek, you got any bright ideas?” 

“Ask him.” Derek swallowed, his throat tight. “We’ll take him out, for a movie and dinner, somewhere far away, and we’ll ask him. He likes us, he trusts us.” 

It was unspoken but understood that it had to be them, not Talia, not Naomi, and especially not Peter. Laura grabbed her keys. 

“When?” 

“Today. Soon. Now?” 

Before Laura could grab her purse, the door opened. Derek whipped around, hoping to God it wasn’t Talia or Peter—and Cora stood before them, looking defiant even in her elephant print pajamas. 

“I’m coming too.” 

The four of them piled into Laura’s car, Stiles up front and fiddling with the radio and going, “Oh my God, I haven’t heard this in _forever_ ,” with every song. They made a whole day of it, watching a disappointing children’s movie and wandering, driving all over California, going to Muir woods because of how much Stiles gushed about the trees, and then it was exploring towns, taking random turns off the interstate and listening to Stiles’s steady heartbeat. 

They wound up in a quiet diner tucked away from busy streets. Cora kept shooting Derek and Laura the most obvious looks over her tapioca pudding. Laura kicked her, kicking Derek in the process since he was between them. 

“Stiles?” Stiles made a noise, looking up from his mountain of curly fries. “Is… we feel bad, you know, you doing everything for us and we haven’t done anything for you in return.” 

Stiles’s mouth fell open.

“Hey, that’s not true—”

“I mean it, it must be hard, carrying all that weight. Is there something you want to tell us? We can help with some of that weight, Stiles… if you want.” 

Stiles’s heartbeat kicked up a notch as his lips pulled back into a too-tight smile, his fork hitting his plate loudly. 

“Oh, guys—I’m just glad to be here and see all of you. Sometimes it’s strange to see Derek so happy and full of emotions.” Stiles winked even though he wasn’t joking. “Cora, you were so fierce, a real force of nature.” 

Cora hiccupped, her eyes wide. 

“Really?” 

“Really, really.” Stiles shrugged. “It’s not… it’s not a weight any of you have to carry because it’s not going to happen anymore. When I knew you it was us against the world and… every day there was something out to kill us, and we’d always defeat it.”

He was lying, but he was so tense that Derek was willing to let it slide. Laura leaned forward, her eyes sharp. 

“Were you our Pack?”

Stiles blinked.

“Oh, I didn’t—I only knew Derek, Peter, and Cora, and even then we were a rag-tag bunch. I’m human so, I don’t think I was Pack.” 

Derek felt cold shock run through him. How broken was his future self if he couldn’t immediately see the benefit of Stiles as a Pack member? His vocal chords betrayed him as he blurted out: 

“Humans can be Pack.”

Stiles’s eyes dipped down to the straw wrapper he kept twisting between his fingers.

“We never talked about it.”

Laura’s alarm was palpable and Cora pressed herself closer to Derek. He didn’t want to imagine the time Stiles came from, the horrors that made Pack an afterthought. Stiles’s breathing was getting a hint of panic to it. Derek went to quickly change the subject when Laura interrupted him, her hands clenched into bone-white fists. 

“Did you have a girlfriend?” Stiles’s heart was roaring. “Boyfriend?”

The shocked silence only lasted a few moments, and then Stiles’s brown eyes filled with tears and _shit, SHIT_. His hands covered his eyes, the stench of grief so strong Cora was crying in an instant. Laura swallowed, her shoulders rising and Cora slid out of the booth, throwing herself at Stiles’s side. He jumped, then took his hands away from his red-rimmed eyes and immediately deflated. 

“Oh, oh Cora, don’t cry, geez guys—yes, I had someone… but it doesn’t matter. This,” he hugged Cora closer and nudged Derek and Laura with his feet, “is more important. He’d understand.” 

His heartbeat was steady as Cora hugged him tight while Derek was too ashamed to meet his gaze. The ride home was quiet. Cora slept in the back while Stiles hummed along with the radio. As they parked the car, Laura nudged him before they got out of the car.

“Sorry if I pried too much, but I want you to know that we’re happy you’re here and staying with us.” Laura swallowed. “I can ask Mom, I’m sure she’d love to have you in the Pack if that’s something you… wanted.” 

Derek was trembling as Stiles’s heartbeat rocketed as he scratched the back of his head. 

“Oh, uh—I’ll think about it. Right now, though, I’m totally wiped. I’m going to shower and crash.” 

Derek held a sleeping Cora in his arms as Stiles sprinted up the stairs to the bathroom. Laura side-eyed Derek and his unease. 

“He just needs his space.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Sometimes people just need to know that they have a support system, and we did that. You’ll see, Derek.”

The next morning Stiles was gone. 

::::

Cold witching-hour wind scraped over Stiles’s skin. His backpack was slung over his shoulder as he made his way through the woods, out of the Hale preserve, and, God willing, out of Beacon Hills. Stiles could barely see his own hands but he knew it was the best time to leave while everyone was deep in their REM cycles. 

His skin was tight with tried tears. He should have done this after the fire, he never should have stayed and tricked himself into thinking he could make it work. Naomi and Peter made a great pair, and the longer Stiles stayed, the more unfair it was to them. 

Stiles had to stop and press the heels of his hands against his face because he couldn’t cry anymore, so he just breathed in deeply until he felt safe moving again—

Only to see Chris Argent standing in front of him.

“Holy _fuck_ —” Stiles leapt back, hitting the ground hard. “Jesus—what are you doing here?”

“Jogging.” Stiles boggled at him. “I could ask the same of you. You look like shit.” 

“Thanks, Chris.”

Stiles winced at how raw and worn he sounded. Chris pulled Stiles to his feet, brushing him off in a way that made Stiles miss his father fiercely. 

“Come on, my car is close. You need to get cleaned up.” 

Chris’s hand was warm on Stiles’s back. He walked in a haze, settling back into the Argent house and letting Chris steer him into the kitchen. Stiles splashed water onto his face, over and over until he didn’t feel so blurry around the edges, until he was sure he could breathe without crying. Chris, to his credit, drank orange juice straight from the carton like an emotionally unstable young man wasn’t bent over his sink. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when Victoria shuffled into the kitchen wearing a blue nightgown. She stiffened, glancing at Stiles, but Chris made a low noise in his throat and she relaxed. Stiles cleared his throat, wincing at how much it burned. 

“Good morning, Victoria. I’ll be out of your hair in just a bit.”

“No need to rush.” Chris smiled, kissing Victoria’s temple quickly. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.” 

Understatement of the year award went to Chris Argent. Stiles huffed a dry laugh, rubbing his eyes until they felt raw. Victoria started coffee and insisted he make breakfast in a poor repayment for intruding. Stiles made star-shaped pancakes, and it was worth it to hear Allison’s gasp, “Pancakes? Stiles?” before she leapt into his arms. 

Stiles felt his body relax inch by inch because the Argents didn’t know where he came from, they didn’t have endless questions like the Hales. 

There were days when Stiles could barely remember Peter’s teasing jibes, or what smile he’d wear when Stiles would kiss him awake. Scott’s voice was becoming murkier with every passing minute… and there was nothing Stiles could do to keep a hold on them. It was unfair to project his memory onto this time, and he knew he crossed a line with the Paul Ekman book, the embrace he received that felt so familiar was not his to savor. 

Allison kissed Stiles on the cheek, clearing the miserable fog in his eyes for a moment. 

“Bye-bye, Stiles, thanks for the pancakes!”

With a grin and a hop, Allison was out of the door followed by an exasperated Victoria. Stiles rubbed his temples. 

“Thanks for letting me catch my breath.”

“No problem.” 

The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Stiles sighed. 

“I’m going to leave town. I’ve overstayed my welcome with the Hales.”

Chris’s fists clenched, his blue eyes hardening as he stood. 

“Did—did they hurt you, Stiles?” 

“What? God no, what the fuck, they’d never hurt me or _anyone_.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “I just think it would be best for them if I wasn’t here anymore.”

Stiles sucked in a breath, feeling lighter already. He touched Peter’s bite mark through his sleeve and pretended it didn’t make him shiver. In the time Stiles had come from, Peter claimed him as his mate and though they didn’t get much privacy they would still have moments of “You’re _mine_ ,” paired with moans of, “yours, _yours_ ,” and Stiles never kept track of who was claiming and being claimed. Sometimes Lydia would catch them, one memorable occasion ending up with Stiles kicking Peter off of him and Lydia laughing at them. 

They never said the doomed, “I love you.” At the time Stiles told himself it was a matter of convenience and they had sex to pretend everything wasn’t falling apart at their feet. It numbed them to the reality they were trapped in; the reality Stiles became determined to rescue them from.

Sitting in Chris’s table, Stiles wondered if Peter had known he was lying to himself. 

“How are you planning on traveling?”

Stiles shrugged, his grip tight on his backpack. 

“Probably will hitchhike as far as I can.”

He had no money and no working identification, but if there was one thing Stiles could do, it was survive. Chris shook his head.

“I’ll get you a train ticket.” Chris had that soft look, a fatherly look that made Stiles flinch. “But I suggest thinking about it. Maybe things aren’t so bad.”

Stiles laughed too loudly. 

“Wow. That’s not what I was expecting from you.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of the Hales, but you’re a good kid. And if they make you happy who am I to get in your way?”

Peter liked to say that no one’s happiness mattered except his own. He’d clip each word off with too much tooth and snarl after a hard fuck. He’d bite Stiles’s wrist and come hard, growling for Stiles to only worry about himself. Every morning since landing in 2005, Stiles could hear Peter screaming his name, screaming “No, Stiles— _NO_ —”

His knuckles were white, his skin pressed tight around his bones. 

“I’m not a moocher.”

“Just a Good Samaritan, right?” Stiles shoved a cold pancake into his mouth to keep himself from saying something stupid. “Wolves aren’t generous with loyalty and trust. I can respect that; I think it’s smart. Having someone live with them and not be Pack isn’t a common occurrence.” 

The more time passed the more Stiles felt like he was drowning. He had too much memory and he could feel Talia staring at him because Stile was starting to slip. A war tore apart his mind and he just wanted them safe. 

He thought that once he got back to 2005 he’d figure it out; that he’d save them gracefully and then all the details would weave together. Instead he made them worry; he drove Derek, Laura, and Cora to the point where they were one step away from begging him to confide in them. Stiles wanted to be with his father, not that Chris was unpleasant… but Stiles just wanted to hug his Dad. 

“I’ll drive you, if you want. Up to Seattle, that should be enough distance.”

Frigid hands clamped around Stiles’s ribcage, and just like that he knew he couldn’t leave. Lydia and Stiles spoke about it for hours, and it came down to a simple fact: Stiles was going back for all of them. If he saved the Hales he saved everyone. 

“No.” Stiles pulled his hoodie tight around him. “I want to go back.”

Chris stood, brushing off his knees. 

“Right now, or do you mind helping an old man with some yard work?” 

Stiles laughed because it was such a cheap “Dad” trick, but he followed Chris out to rake leaves and chop wood. It was the right amount of grueling work that numbed Stiles’s mind until the sky was orange. 

The drive to the Hales was quiet, and Stiles felt a stab of guilt when he saw the whole Pack waiting for him, each one looking haggard and wrung out. Stiles took three steps onto the grass before Cora sprinted, tackling him to the ground and Stiles wheezed as Derek and Laura piled on. His cheeks were wet, but Stiles couldn’t tell whom the tears were coming from. Cora pressed her face to his stomach, Derek clutching Stiles’s side while Laura kept saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” into Stiles’s ear. 

He squeezed all three of them, baring his neck and letting them press their faces into his skin. 

“It’s okay.” Stiles could barely speak past the knot in his throat as he held them as close as he could. “I won’t leave again.” 

He’d made a promise that he’d go back for everyone, not just himself, and he intended to keep it. 

::::

Peter never put himself under the illusion that he was a good person. Living in a world where people were either good or evil was a fairytale. Talia tried to ignore it, letting Peter dirty his hands with necessary violence. Even with his arranged marriage, Peter knew he’d never love Naomi, and he told her that the night they met. “ _Love is for children_ ,” Peter said before pouring her a flute of champagne. 

In Peter’s experience love was useful when it could be manipulated.

“Lost another pawn.” Peter smirked at Stiles even though the boy’s heartbeat remained annoyingly steady. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’s leg bounced as the sun sank, honey-tinged light seeping through the living room windows. Cora was laid out drawing on the floor and Derek was curled around a book. “I hope you’re taking this seriously.”

Stiles believed in love, Peter could tell. Love is what brought Stiles back in time; love is what made him return to them in Chris Argent’s car, swearing to never leave the Pack again. Love is what made him run through fire without a second thought. 

Stiles never let himself be alone with Peter… and it was beginning to sting. They’d had wonderful conversations, traded obscure facts about everything from monsters to poetry—but the second Peter had Stiles alone the boy would find a reason to leave. It was a miracle that Peter was able to persuade him to play a game of chess, and he hated that Stiles only agreed because Derek and Cora were in the room. 

Stiles rubbed his right wrist, hard enough that it made Peter’s teeth ache.

“Have you ever considered becoming a wolf?” Peter licked his lips as Stiles’s heartbeat skyrocketed, his leg stilling. Derek and Cora froze, pretending not to listen as Peter leaned forward, his chair creaking. “Now that all magic as been stripped from you, you’re human. I think being a Wolf would suit you, and I’m sure Talia would—” 

Stiles’s hand darted out, sweeping his bishop over and—

“Checkmate.” 

Stiles jolted out of his chair and Peter glanced down to see that Stiles had indeed defeated him. Stiles was already on the other side of the room, shaking so hard that Peter felt a chill pass through him. Derek got up slowly, like Stiles was a skittish animal.

“Stiles?”

“S-Sorry.” His teeth clacked together and he rubbed his arms. “Just got a chill, you know?”

He was lying and before anyone could comment, Stiles was out of the living room, past the foyer, and out the front door—and Peter kept Derek and Cora behind him because the tremors had faded, but the stench of grim terror hadn’t. 

The Sheriff’s cruiser rolled up, and when he stepped out with a grave expression Peter tugged his niece and nephew closer. The Sheriff met Peter’s eyes as he informed them that Kate had escaped from prison. Stiles took a deep breath, his eyes dark and cold. 

“We can’t stay here, we’ve got to go somewhere else.” He glanced back at the Sheriff. “Maybe someplace by water so they only need to be on guard from one direction, but still populated enough that the neighbors aren’t a thousand miles away.”

“My wife—she had a vacation house.” The Sheriff spoke in a daze, his gaze shifting uneasily between Peter and Stiles. “It’s—it’s safe, I’ll have my officers escort you there. We can leave—”

“ _Now_.” Talia, Naomi, and Laura walked out in time for Stiles to push them back in the house. “Throw the essentials in a bag, be back in the foyer in fifteen minutes.” The house exploded into movement, except Peter. Stiles’s pulse was steady, his trembling had stopped. He licked his lips. “You’ll all go now, I’ll follow up and pack up anything you missed and—”

“No.” Peter was surprised at his own voice. “I’ll go with you.”

“Me too.”

Laura tugged her backpack onto her shoulders and the Sheriff and Stiles sighed and put their hands on their hips at the same time. Stiles seemed to notice and quickly slid his hands into his pockets. He threw their bags into the car, herding Naomi and Talia effortlessly, giving Derek and Cora tight hugs. Peter remembered thinking that Stiles could be a glorious Alpha if he put his mind to it. 

Peter had to run his tongue over his teeth to make sure that they weren’t too sharp when he spoke to the Sheriff. 

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He stared at Stiles, at how the boy placed his body between the Pack and the woods until Talia, Naomi, Derek, and Cora were safe in the car. 

Peter was beginning to think Stiles viewed himself as nonessential. 

They moved through the house quickly, the Sheriff waiting outside as they grabbed everyone’s favorite games, books, and movies. Stiles twirled the keys around his fingers with a soft, “I’m driving,” that left no room for questions. The plan was the Sheriff would follow their car up to the vacation house, and call for backup once he was there. Laura sat in the back, Peter at the passenger’s side. Stiles was _tap-tap-tapping_ the steering wheel when Laura snarled. 

“Stop it!” They’d just crossed the town square. Stiles pulled over to a coffee shop when pressed her hands to her eyes. “Calm down, you’re giving me a headache.” Laura shoved the door open. “I need something to drink.”

She slammed the door shut, her eyes glimmering. Stiles kept his eyes ahead, his shoulders quivering. If Laura thought Stiles’s heartbeat was deafening before, Peter was glad she was not with them now.

He stretched his legs out and thought of the Ekman book in his bag and how Stiles understood him to a level that made him equally unnerved and transfixed. Stiles still wouldn’t look at him. Peter heaved out a dramatic sigh. 

“Was I really so different in your time?” It was hard to imagine himself being much different, but Stiles purposely never said much about his timeline. But he _knew_ Peter, he made Peter comfortable in a way no one else had, when Peter had pulled Stiles into a hug he’d hoped it would feel alien and awkward… but instead they fit together perfectly. “I think I deserve to know why I make you so uncomfortable.” 

The leather steering wheel groaned under Stiles’s grip and the air soured. Stiles finally looked at him with eyes that seemed to have been numbed down to a dull sheen. 

“I met you… after you turned my best friend into a werewolf against his will. You were a deranged Alpha, all fucked up after the fire and you were killing everyone responsible but you needed a Pack. I never knew Laura because you ripped her in half to become Alpha.” He recited the story like he was tired, not devastated and gutted anymore. Stiles rubbed his temples. “We killed you, then you came back and helped us for a while.” 

Laura bounced on her feet while she waited in line. Peter wanted power, yes but… he couldn’t imagine what state of mind he’d need to have in order to murder his niece. Stiles bit his thumbnail. 

“What else?” Peter felt like he was drowning. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” 

Stiles curled in on himself, a sticky shine on his skin that smelled like soured ash. He lost all color in his face. 

“Get out.” Stiles’s knuckles were about to break through his paper-thin skin. “I need—I can’t breathe, not with you here. I just need a minute, please—”

Peter was moving without consciously telling his body to do so. He stumbled into the coffee shop, almost colliding with Laura. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezing her tight so he could convince himself that she was still alive, and that his hands hadn’t torn into her. Laura spilled some coffee into her fingers.

“Peter, what’s going on?” He couldn’t say, he didn’t _dare_ say. “Peter, you’re scaring me—”

Screeching tires cut her off, and Stiles was tearing down the road, leaving the smell of burning rubber behind him. 

::::

Most people would take a glance at Beacon Hills and would write it off as a rural, idyllic town that belonged on nostalgic postcards. Sheriff Stilinski would be the first to point out that every town had its secrets, the underbelly that no one wanted to see or speak off—dark corners full of syringes, overdoses, hit-and-runs, and domestic violence. It didn’t bother him on most days, but he had his moments when he couldn’t move because the terror was too suffocating, all the dark things no one acknowledged closing in. 

When Stiles would want him to kiss a scrape better, or when he’d smile with a gap in his teeth—John would hug his son closer, almost too tight. 

The night of the fire sent a chill through him as he watched Kate scream at them to let her go, _“Let me **finish** them,”_ and even the hottest shower couldn’t bring warmth back to his skin. 

The same chill came over him when the Good Samaritan took off, abandoning Peter and Laura. The Sheriff fumbled before he switched his cruiser into gear and gave chase, flicking on his lights as he struggled to close the distance between the young man and his car. John saw that the boy seemed to be after another car, an SUV—and before the Sheriff could change gears, the Samaritan slammed his car into the SUV. 

John’s foot left the gas—startled, and someone leaned out of the passenger window. He had time to see a flash of blonde hair as the thought _Kate_ flickered across his brain—and she shot out his tires, sending his cruiser careening off the road. The airbags deployed, burning and bruising his face as he reached for his radio. 

“I need backup and paramedics on Spring Valley road, about a mile north of the main street intersection!” 

Screams of twisted metal made John drop his walkie, and a loud crash followed, the kind of crash that thudded deep in his chest. John threw open the door, stumbling as he ran down the road. 

::::

The tremors started again, as soon as Peter slammed the door and Stiles turned to see what was making Rumbles uneasy. At the intersection in a sleek SUV, were Gerard and Kate Argent. 

Music didn’t swell and everything didn’t go red while _Kill Bill_ sirens wailed in Stiles’s ears. He watched as Kate spread out a map and laughed, her nails tapping the dash as she waited for the light to turn green. The tremors in his body increased and he felt one of a thousand hands close on the back of his neck. It was warm, too smooth and too dry, and a pulse of heat spread through Stiles’s skin. 

_This is it._ Rumbles didn’t speak to him, if It did, Stiles’s ears would have collapsed and Peter would have come back to find Stiles’s liquefied body. But if Stiles happened to let certain words float to the front of his mind in a correct sequence… that was probably safe. _If she gets free then all your travels have been for nothing._

Stiles threw the car into drive just as the light turned green. 

The shaking got deeper, rattling Stiles’s bones as he ignored his father following him and focused on Kate. He jerked the wheel, slamming into the passenger’s side—Kate’s side—and as he regained control of the car she shot behind him—at his father. Time didn’t’ slow and an aria didn’t glide across the wind as Stiles yanked the wheel over for a final time—an ugly roar tearing from his throat as he pushed them both off the road. 

Glass shattered and the world went upside down. Airbags burst forward and Stiles knew he must have blacked out because he came to hanging upside down with blood dripping from his nose. 

He crawled out of the window, leaves and dirt sticking to his fingers as he rolled up his sleeves. The sky was grey; the light sharper than a knife as Stiles’s eyes struggled to focus. They’d gone off road, into the woods, and Kate’s SUV had wrapped around a tree. 

Stiles limped to the car, adrenalin blocking out the pain as he peered into the driver’s side. Gerard’s eyes were closed and when Stiles pressed his fingers to the old man’s neck he felt nothing. 

“Turn around.” Stiles didn’t jump at Kate’s voice and when he turned she had a glock aimed at his chest, her lipstick unfairly perfect. Stiles let his anger bleed through or else he’d get tired, or else the tremors would shake him to pieces. She clicked her tongue at him. “Ooh, what’s that face for, sweetheart?” 

Having Kate so close was something Stiles could never have prepared himself for. Her dead eyes and pretty blonde hair had an aura of _wrong-no-stop_ that made his skin crawl. 

“None of your business.” 

She grinned with bloodstained teeth. 

“When someone tries to kill me it is my business.” 

It was a classic western standoff except Stiles had no gun and if he blinked his vision would go fuzzy. Movement at the road caught both of their eyes and Stiles saw his father breathing heavily, his eyes wide and his gun in his hand—

Kate was behind Stiles and her grip was hard on his arm, the metal hot against Stiles’s temple. 

“Don’t move, Sheriff.” Kate’s voice bounced cheerfully like she was a kindergarten teacher and not a murderous psychopath. “Or this sweet thing will never live to pop his cheery.” Stiles jerked as her tongue dragged up his cheek. “Or is it just the opposite—are you fucking one of them?”

Her voice wavered and she knew there was nowhere to run. The Sheriff would have called for backup and she couldn’t outrun the entire Beacon Hills police force. He saw the whites of her eyes gain a dangerous sheen because she’d failed. Stiles spit blood onto her face and it was worth the metal smashed against his teeth before she pressed the gun into his collarbone, her breath hot against his skin.

Stiles saw a shadow move behind his dad, but he couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light… or if Peter was actually standing next to his father. The tremors stopped all at once bringing a blissful stillness and clarity to Stiles’s mind. 

He folded his blood-sticky hands over Kate’s and pressed the gun harder against his flesh, savoring how he could hear her heartbeat jump against his back. 

Faraway, someone shouted his name, desperate and cracked, and people were running as Stiles kept bleeding. It felt familiar, like if he closed his eyes, he’d be back in the field with Lydia and Peter. He blinked and he was still in 2005, blood dripping into his eyes and a possible broken tooth floating around his mouth. 

Kate screamed when Stiles pulled the trigger. 

::::

Brushing with death didn’t bring Stiles any grander understanding of the world or spiritual epiphanies. All he got was a concussion and the taste of blood in his mouth. His eyelids seemed to want to stick together and Stiles grimaced at the fluorescent hospital lights. A clock ticked on the wall. The windows were ink black. Stiles looked down to see he’d been stripped of his hoodie and jeans and his right wrist—

Peter was hunched over on a chair, Stiles’s wrist held tightly in his grasp, each breath tickling over the scar his teeth put there in the alternative future Stiles had just erased. Peter’s breathing was deep and even, but Stiles could see the circles under his eyes, the wrinkled and unwashed state of his clothes. He looked almost as bad as Stiles felt when he slipped his hand free. 

His legs shook as he tugged on his jeans, his hoodie must have been too ruined to salvage. 

Peter never stirred, his exhaustion stingingly clear. He still wore his wedding band. Stiles poked his head out of the door, relieved to find that most of the lights were off. He darted into another room and grabbed a carton of orange juice, hoping the glucose would give him a needed boost. 

The gentle electronic hum of the lights and vending machines followed him as he made it to the stairwell, easing himself down three flights of stairs. Sweat gathered on his palms, making him slip on the railing. He was winded by the time he got to the alleyway exit and he rubbed his legs, trying not to think about how long he’d been out.

Outside was tranquil, like early morning fog drifting over a lake. In the quiet of the late night or early morning, Stiles saw himself somewhere east, tucked away from the city. The first thing Stiles was going to do, once he was far away, was take a long hot bath. 

He took a moment to lean against the cold brick wall, his skin throbbing under the bandages. If he moved fast he could break into a pharmacy and get some alcohol and gauze, more OJ, and maybe some advil—

The door slammed open and Stiles flailed around, white spots blurring his vision because _ow_ , everything hurt. His back hit the bricks and he was pretty sure a few of his wounds were reopened. 

Peter stood in the doorway, eyes shining bright Beta blue. His chest leaved like he couldn’t catch his breath. 

“Please.” Peter’s voice was a hollow whisper. “Please don’t leave when you’re not fully healed.”

The warm concern in his voice was like a siren’s song. Stiles swallowed, too tired to run anymore. He nodded and Peter was by his side, wrapping him up in a warm hug that made Stiles moan. He _missed_ this so much it made his hands ache every morning. They swayed in the alleyway, Stiles’s mouth pressed against Peter’s shoulder. 

“You’re married.” 

“I don’t _care_.” He snarled and Stiles could feel Peter’s long teeth against his cheek. Peter took a deep breath, his hands trailing down Stiles’s back until they stopped on his side. “Just… please don’t run away the first chance you get.”

“Okay.” Stiles felt like he was finally being honest. He sniffed, totally not crying into Peter’s shoulder. “Okay, Peter.” 

They had a few hours of peace before the Pack showed up. Laura immediately punched Stiles’s bad shoulder, making him shout. 

“Ow, Laura—”

“Sorry. No, not sorry, Stiles, you _shot_ yourself!” Cora whimpered and Derek hugged her close. Laura shook Stiles’s other shoulder, his teeth clacking together. “What were you thinking?”

Stiles shrugged, wincing because even that simple action hurt. 

“I saw it in a movie.” Stiles smirked. “One that hasn’t come out yet.” That earned him another punch. “It worked, right?” 

“It did.” Talia spoke in a low, raspy timber. “It worked.”

Before she could say more there was a loud clatter in the hallway and the Argents were squeezing their way into the room loaded with a patronizing amount of balloons. When one sun-shaped balloon bounced off Talia’s head, Stiles knew they mostly got him so many presents for the annoyance factor. Stiles could respect that. 

Allison climbed onto the bed holding a crayon drawing of Stiles surrounded by his star-shaped pancakes. 

“Okay. I’m declaring a hugging party is officially in session.” Stiles held Allison while leaning to peer out of the door. “Let me guess, Naomi, you’re right outside.” The werewolf in question guilty poked her head in. Stiles waved her in. “Bring it in.” 

It wasn’t easy hugging nine people at once, but Stiles thought he did a decent job.

::::

In 2015 Stiles laid broken and bruised on a hospital bed, stinking of blood and anesthesia. Lydia sat with her chair against the door while Peter kept draining the pain away. Stiles’s heartbeat was getting stronger, edging away from the soft whisper it had been for the first few hours. When he opened his eyes Peter didn’t offer condolences for the loss of his friends and father. He didn’t say that Stiles should be glad to be alive, that they had to keep moving forward. 

He offered to be Stiles’s mate. He saw Lydia stiffen, her heartbeat picking up as Stiles snorted. Peter calmly explained that it would make them both stronger, improve reflexes and their immune system. 

_“Sure,”_ Stiles said after Peter purposely didn’t mention just how important it was to find a mate, how rare—how Peter had been more at ease with himself for the first time in his life because of _Stiles_. Lydia crossed her arms tightly over her chest as Stiles winked at Peter despite his black eye and chipped tooth. _“Why not?”_

Then Stiles stood under the moon and that time was erased. 

Peter held the door open for Stiles in 2005, dressed in a dark v-neck that made Stiles stare at his neck. Naomi had picked it out with a wink and a shove when Peter glared at his reflection.

Smiling had never been so easy. And Peter found that making Stiles laugh was an intense high. 

He’d stood beside the Sheriff, up on the road, and when Stiles pulled the trigger Peter realized he didn’t need to believe in love to experience it. He’d roared Stiles’s name and—and for the longest time he couldn’t think. He wasn’t sure what had happened until Laura slapped him, hard enough to make his head turn as he blinked the red out of his eyes. The Sheriff was pale, pressing his hands over Stiles’s bleeding shoulder, but his eyes were on Peter. 

Love was very, _very_ real, and that day it had been bleeding to death on the side of the road. 

“Hey.” Stiles slapped Peter’s arm, his smile bright. “Get your head in the game, Peter. It was worth the drive, your heart is going to melt out of your chest and puddle onto the floor.” 

“Sounds like I should avoid this movie for my health.”

It was easy; it was like they both knew a secret language. It should have been terrifying, but instead Peter was giddy (not that he’d ever use that word in conjuncture with himself aloud). Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t even try it. You’re going to be worshipping me after this, you’re going to cry, you’re going to sweep any Oscars bets, oh man, I never got to see this in theaters and—”

Stiles made a noise of excitement, a few people glancing toward him with questioning gazes. It was a small indie theater, two hours out of the way, and Stiles had screamed when he saw the title of the movie in the paper. 

He’d filled out, no longer shedding weight due to stress and fear. He didn’t bite his fingernails and the dark circles under his eyes were finally beginning to fade. The seats were too small and the floor was sticky. There were maybe a handful of others there, but once the strangely bouncy music that had a hint of sadness to it that played over clips of clips of beauty pageants… Peter forgot all about complaining. 

An hour and a half later and they’re back on the road, the windows rolled down and Stiles’s eyes shining in the dark. 

“Spoiler alert, Arkin wins best supporting actor.” Stiles stuck his hand out of the window. Peter did his best not to stare at how long Stiles’s fingers stretched in the moonlight. “I don’t remember when _Pan’s Labyrinth_ comes out, but I know it’s this year… and I need to see that in theaters.” 

Getting a divorce had been easy. 

Talia and Stiles took the most convincing, Talia worried about the Pack, and Stiles worried about Naomi. When Stiles had blurted out, _“It was just—Peter mated with me out of convenience, trust me, he wasn’t starry-eyed romantic about it,”_ Peter wanted to meet his alternate-future self and tear his throat out. Naomi had gone quiet and pale, and even Talia’s eyes were red. Stiles had turned to Peter, his eyes wide. _“What?”_

A quiet lull stretched between them. Stiles still smelled like vanilla coke and popcorn. They passed the sign that said: _You are now entering Beacon Hills_ when Stiles cleared his throat. 

“So… mating is more than just improving reflexes and immune systems, huh?”

Peter ground his teeth. 

“Yes.” He knew his eyes were bright blue, his fangs dropping past his lips before he took a breath to regain his composure. “Those are just scratching the surface. It’s finding an anchor, a center, someone who puts you at a perfect balance. It’s not common… actually, it’s exceedingly rare, but once it happens it…”

_A subtle realization that the boy’s smell never felt unknown, how he could always pick up his heartbeat, how smiling never seemed so easy, how_ trust _never came quicker—_

“Ah.” Stiles smiled in the dark as they pulled into the driveway. “It’s a know-it-when-I-see-it thing?” 

Peter blew out a long breath. 

“Yes.” 

The sound of their feet crunching on the gravel was strangely intimate, their breath puffing out in front of them. The stars shone brightly in the night sky and Stiles leaned against the door. 

“Thanks for the movie.” He tilted his head up. “I’m still getting a feel for your taste, that way the next one will be perfect—”

Peter kissed him. He felt the boy’s lips quirk in surprise and Peter pulled back a bit. 

“Is this okay?”

Stiles nodded and he pulled Peter back in for a kiss, smiling. Previously, Peter hadn’t been a fan of kissing unless it was a mere dalliance before a nice fuck. But now, just the soft press of his lips against Stiles’s… he could get lost in it. Each lingering touch just pulled Peter back for more. 

Stiles’s fingers wove through Peter’s hair just as his tongue ran along Peter’s lower lip. Peter shivered; he parted his lips and pressed Stiles against the door, needing to feel him. Stiles groaned, pulling Peter’s hair so he could mouth sloppy kisses along Peter’s jaw.

Peter’s hands were trembling on Stiles’s hips, but he could handle it, he could savor it—

Then Stiles stretched up on the tips of his toes so he could close his teeth gently on Peter’s earlobe. 

There was a loud _crack_ and suddenly they were both falling. 

Stiles’s cackling had Peter’s family coming down the stairs, Laura rubbing her eyes and squinting.

“Peter… did you break our door?”

::::

John Stilinski sat on his bed, holding his wife’s old jewelry box in his hands. If he closed his eyes he could still smell the last traces of her perfume, and it made his throat tighten as he opened the box. Inside were envelopes, all kinds of letters she wrote for Stiles, for days she wouldn’t be there. His first school dance, his twenty first birthday—his engagement and the day he got married. 

John ran his calloused fingers over the unsealed envelopes, remembering how Claudia had kissed his cheek as she gave him those letters with shaking hands. 

He also remembered chasing after the Good Samaritan, and how Peter and Laura Hale were magically by his side—and how when the Samaritan shot through his own body to get to Kate, how Peter had bellowed a name that chilled John to the core—and that was before he got a look at his face, at his bright blue eyes and _fangs_. 

Laura, thankfully, had her wits about her. She kept it short. _“We’re werewolves. My dear uncle here is having an emotional moment.”_ She was crying despite her words, and John’s hands had been wet with the Samaritan’s blood—Stiles’s blood. He’d swallowed, pressing down hard to stop the bleeding. _“Is he like you?”_

She’d shaken her head. John looked down, at the boy’s fair face, at the moles and nose that seemed so familiar… 

_“There’s something different about him, isn’t there?”_

He already knew the answer. And so he gathered up his envelopes, almost a year later, and made his way up to the Hale house. He thought of Stiles’s bright smile when he headed off to school that morning, and he hoped that this older Stiles could find a way to smile like that again. He was surprised to see Peter loading up the car with luggage, older-Stiles behind him. 

John felt a little awkward as he got out of the car, letters in his hands as Stiles paused, his brow furrowing. 

“Sheriff?”

Suddenly all of John’s rehearsed speeches flew out of his head once he had both Peter and Stiles looking at him, both praying that he wasn’t back to deliver bad news. He cleared his throat.

“Going on vacation?” 

“Kind of.” Older-Stiles shrugged, his cheeks a bit pink. “Engagement present. Peter’s a big fat romantic.” 

Peter Hale rolled his eyes, tossing a final bag into the car. John wanted to hug his son, he wanted to tell him he was proud of the man he’d become, that he was glad he wasn’t so alone anymore—that his mother would have been so ecstatic to see just how Stiles had _grown_. 

He wanted to ask Stiles about the time he’d come from… because after confronting the fact that werewolves existed, time traveling didn’t seem unbelievable. 

“Sheriff?” Peter said it that time, the wrinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yes.” John cleared his throat because his voice cracked, and he nodded. “Yes, I just thought I’d, uh, check up and see how things are going. It can wait. Until after your trip.” He tapped his fingers on the envelopes and he smiled at Stiles. “You look… more settled. I’m glad the Hales have been looking out for you.” Stiles’s eyes began to get a bit of a shine to them and Peter looked like he knew that John wasn’t telling them the whole story. Before Peter could open his mouth, John plowed forward. “Have a nice trip. I’ll be around when you get back. Oh, and congratulations on the engagement.” 

John waited until he was home to let his breathing hitch as he gently put the letters on his desk. He heard the front door open. 

_“Dad?”_

John wiped his eyes, running his hands down his face a few times before he spoke.

“Upstairs, kiddo.”

Eager footsteps thudded up the stairs and soon Stiles was a very real ten-year-old boy who threw himself into his father’s arms. John held him tight, his eyes drifting shut as he thought:

_Our boy turned out just fine._

**Author's Note:**

> Phew. First Teen Wolf fic and it's over 15k. I can't just write a simple one-shot. It was a prompt on cywscross's tumblr and I just couldn't get it out of my mind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, any and all comments/criticisms are welcome.


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